I've never felt so silent in so long.

I sing and I write and I play but I don't really talk. I don't know whether if it's I have anything to say or whether I'm keeping quiet about something. But nobody really notices, nobody really cares right now. And that's fine.

We rehearse and rehearse and sing and practise and write and I can't get away from fans. I turn my notifications off for good, the sound becoming a loud drumming that's in my nightmares every fucking night because people won't leave me alone. They're on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram. I'm happy that they listen and that they care but there's strings and strings of just pure shit that I can't unsee and so I'd rather not see them at all.

They're not just online though. They're outside the hotel, outside every venue we go to, at restaurants and shops and following the fucking bus and I nearly hit the roof when I seem them hiding behind bushes at the studios. Not just hiding but filming, fucking filming.

They love us, but they do terrible things to us. I love them, but I'm so afraid of them.

"Scott?" Oliver's voice is timid, sharing the piano stool in the studio where we're the only ones left. He's on edge every time I see him; jaw clenched and eyes following Luke around the room.

They haven't spoken since everything, and I think it's safe to say they've officially fallen out. Luke smokes and drinks and snorts and he's barely there during rehearsals. His stage presence though is fucking incredible.

He has power stances and signature looks and smirks that can make grown women weep. Luke is the perfect lead; with bloodshot eyes and a knack for throwing himself about on stage, you'd think he was doing Speed.

I asked Demitri, he's definitely doing Speed.

But Oliver, kind Oliver, who looks at a person and sees fucking halos and angel's wings doesn't understand; how can someone hate him? He sits next to me, his fingernails bitten to the bones as he waits for me to step out of my daydream where people know who I am but they also fucking leave me alone.

They just listen to the music, they just listen.

"Sorry, spaced for a sec."

"I think we all are right now." He nods, looking down at my fingers, resting on the keys but doing fuck all. "I'm actually really nervous."

I smile. "Why? You asked."

"I know but...I've never sung in front of anyone before."

"Mate, you're in a fucking boy band." But he's right; he's never fucking sang in front of anyone. Two years in the one of the most famous boy bands, and he hasn't uttered a note in front of anyone before. Not even me. "Plus, I'm not teaching you how to sing."

"You're not?"

"No. You can sing it's just..." I sigh, "You've been told you don't need to, so you haven't done it. But it's all about giving a shit. If you don't give a shit, you sound shit. Know what I mean?"

"I give a shit."

"Good, that's a start." He smiles, and my soul sets on fire. "So, you see why writing your own songs is so much better than getting people in to do it for you."

"Mike's a good song writer." Mike's a part of that team that writes the hits that are nice and people like but it's just a lot of synth and making stupid noises and no actual fucking singing. He wears sunglasses indoors too, but he smiles when he sees us, unlike Mitch, who snarls.

"He's a good money-maker. That's not what song writing's about. He doesn't write songs the way I do."

"Sounding a bit pretentious now, Scottie."

"Yeah well...song writers are."

"Do you have lyrics to the music you were playing a few days ago?" I remember the way both our fingers worked the keys on that song. I wonder if he thought it was a part of him as much as it was a part of me.

I will never tell him that I've already written lyrics for the song.

But before I can reply, we start to hear a rhythmic banging at the door down the hall. I don't know how we can hear it; the studio is sound proof, the walls coated in that weird stuff that makes sound unable to pass through.

So whatever it is, it's fucking loud.

"What the fuck?" I breathe, standing and leaving Oliver to investigate. I never imagined myself as brave, and when I peer through a high window covered by shrubbery outside, I see the faces of around ten teenage girls.

Shit.

I race back into the studio where Oliver's now stood, tapping at his phone.

"What's up?"

"Fans."

He rolls his eyes. "How do they know that we're here? It's not like there's a giant sign saying this is our studio, or even that it is a studio."

"It's ridiculous."

"It's stupid."

"It's....actually kinda cool."

Oliver doesn't understand, and watches as I sit back at the piano, and turn my phone off.

"What're you doing? You can't turn your phone off, it's in your contract...."

I laugh. "We can't go out there without bouncers or some shit, someone to protect us. I didn't tell anyone that I was comin' here. Did you?"

"Just Candice. But her and Demi's mum is visiting L.A."

"Right." I stare at him until he gets it, until he sits back down on the bench next to me and smiles.

We have a whole day of just creating; of working on Oliver's voice, on working on my song, on doing whatever the fuck we wanted because we were stuck here with no responsibilities.

"Mitch is gunna kill us, Scottie."

I don't say that I wouldn't mind dying here, next to him, alone in the studio.